


Voices

by DarkeAngelus



Category: Marvel 616, New Mutants (Comics), Shatterstar (Comics), X-Force (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Friendship, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkeAngelus/pseuds/DarkeAngelus
Summary: As he lay on the precipice of life and death, Shatterstar heard a number of voices drift in and out within his sphere of pain and exhaustion.





	Voices

**Author's Note:**

> This story immediately follows the last panel of page 18 in the final issue of the Shatterstar mini-series. It also references several instances from the New Mutants:Dead Souls mini-series.  
> If you haven't read either, don't sweat it. At its core, this is a heartfelt RicStar reunion story.

As he lay on the precipice of life and death, Shatterstar heard a number of voices drift in and out within his sphere of pain and exhaustion. 

Karl Snortenthau’s rough voice was representative of his peculiar appearance; resembling an Earth dog species called a Pug. His sharp consonants and harsh slang were interposed with snorts and heavy breathing. Despite the querulous tone that was his trademark manner of speech, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of worry to his words. Star had never particularly liked dogs. In his formative years on Mojoworld, his handlers had called him a dog and mongrel right up to the point he gained the skill to literally cut their tongues off for the slur. Dog soldiers had served as Mojo V’s Imperial Protectorate, the ruler’s loyal guardsmen, and too many had hunted and hurt Star for him to be ever feel easy to the sight of their varied four-legged representations on Earth. Still, he liked Karl and admired his ability to bluff and bluster his way around humans without feeling intimidated despite his extremely small stature. 

The End Woman was very much like her appearance; utilitarian and meant for duty. She helped change the dressings on Star’s many wounds with the brisk efficiency of a war-time medic. Her words were impartial, practical, and to the point. He could only recall one occurrence where she broke from that impersonal tone and whispered close to his ear, “Thank you for saving us.” Her voice had sounded hoarse, as if she were close to tears. 

Goldon _did_ cry. Quite often, in fact. He sat by Star’s bed and rambled on about nonsensical topics; the weather, the news, something he had read in a Reader’s Digest, or some confusing plot-line in the TV series pitch he and his brother were writing. It was background noise interposed with sobs punctuated often by the unpleasant sound of a nose blowing into tissues. Despite the needless display of drama, Star was always grateful for the company even if those visits left him feeling emotionally exhausted that was almost as bad as its physical counterpart. 

Crimzor was the polar opposite of his overly emotional brother. With a demeanor totally devoid of sympathy, he made it a point to critique Star’s performance in the Grandmaster’s arena by pointing out every single flaw in battle and strategy to the point that the Mojoworlder would actually pull out of his self-imposed healing fugue to try and argue the points. He even suspected that the former Raja of the Scorpus Citadel was doing it deliberately, to create a _rise out of him_ , to use earth vernacular. Why else would he be smirking every time Star shot back with a choked defense or a growl of displeasure? 

When he heard popping gum and smelled Hubba Bubba, he knew who it was before he even managed to open one swollen eyelid. Boom Boom was standing beside his bed and had raised her trademark sunglasses up to the point it lifted her heavy blond bangs out of her face. She looked amazed and disgusted. “Holy shit, you look like crap!” Even before he could manage a retort, she was squirming in beside him on the bed and babbling away. The subject manner was inconsequential to the close proximity. Of all people he had met on earth, Tabitha Smith had been among the first he had laid eyes on and she was someone he had known the longest. He afforded her a special distinction among his many alliances. It went beyond the comradery reserved for a tactical partner and delved into that obscure territory that was partly admiration and partly affection. It was a spectrum of “love” he never would have thought his previously stunted emotional potential could ever have grown to accept, but the truth was in how he was feeling with her lying beside him. He loved her; not in a physical sense but in a manner that was vague and profound. An English word that he had never used before rumbled out of him and she went silent. 

There was a long pause then, cautiously, “What’d you say, Shatty?”

“Sister,” he repeated, licking his lips. They felt like sandpaper. “It. You. To me.”

There was no response to that. Boomer quickly rolled off the bed and left the room. His normally enhanced hearing was muted, but he thought he caught the edge of hysteria in her voice as she was saying to someone, “Jesus fucking Christ! He called me his _sister_. Is he dying?!” 

As interesting as that conversation sounded, Star drifted off again, falling into the abyss where there were no dreams. He lost track of the passage of time. Periods were measured by the frequency of the visits which were becoming more and more solemn. His tenants came and went; Boomer made several appearances, each visit shorter than the last. In that rotational queue, there was one individual that his system always responded to, rousing him from the brink. 

It started with warm hands enfolding the one that was not bandaged. Star was running a fever as his healing factor worked to maximum efficiency, but it always left his extremities ice cold as blood flow was diverted to his core. He could feel the muted tremble in that grip that was caused by power, not nerves, and always knew who it was even before that person spoke. 

At the beginning, Rictor’s words had been almost as clipped and frustrated as Crimzor’s as he complained (loudly) about Star’s stubbornness, about sending him to Michigan, griping about missing time from his nightclub. The cadence gradually changed and became softer, less angry. He began speaking in his native tongue and Spanish was one of Star’s favorite languages. He had only desired to learn it for one person during a period in his young life where he had just begun to grasp the concept of friendship. Julio had been there then. Julio was here now. 

“I’m sorry,” Rictor said in a voice very different than his usual clipped manner. He sounded exhausted. He was sitting beside the bed and holding Star’s left hand. The slight tremor of his grip had intensified significantly. “I didn’t know what you had gone through on Horus IV. Karl told me what happened with Deadair. The others told me what you did at the Amphitheatre on the Mount. They-” He drew in a sharp breath of air. “They told me _everything_. Christ, Star, it’s no wonder you’re tapped out. They said that you channeled your shockwave power through your swords almost nonstop. And you teleported from an alien world millions of light-years away without any anchor. You dumb ginger asshole. You know damn well pulling that shit can kill you!” 

The weight on the bed shifted and Rictor’s voice was closer. A cloth with cool water was pressed to his temple and Star stirred, relishing the feel of it. “You’re hurt bad, okay? Like, really bad. I haven’t seen you this messed up since Mexico. You’re not healing like you should be. You’re not- I don’t know if it’s because you overtaxed your powers or because the Grandmaster . . . The-the Grandmaster- That fucking blue prick-!” Rictor's breath hitched and Star knew he only did that when he was fighting back tears. He tried to squeeze the hand holding his but didn’t think he was successful because all of a sudden Rictor was crying. “He killed you! That bastard blasted you to atoms and then pieced you back together and I think maybe he screwed it up because you’re not getting better. You can’t leave it like this. You can’t leave _us_ like this. Okay? You hear me? You remember that kiss you gave me after I blasted the Dockmaster?” 

Rictor’s voice was very close now. “That’s not how you say good-bye to me. Do you understand? ‘Cause you’re back home now and we’re gonna talk it out like grown-ups and we’re gonna do all that shit when you _wake up!”_

He was shouting by the end of it and the bed was shaking and Star wanted to open his eyes and smile at him and tell him not to be so worried, but he couldn’t. He drifted back, back, back into the serenity of that darkness. The voices became a blended mutter of inconsequential sound that eventually fell to silence. It seemed like forever before images began to penetrate the ebon veil. There were flashes of color and vague faces before more distinct forms began swimming up from the depths. 

One was Tina Cooke, the over-enthusiastic refugee from Earth-1218. As usual, she was smiling. “I finally got to be a hero. It was amazing! Did you see it, Ben?” 

“I saw you fall,” Star said sadly. For some reason, he wasn’t surprised that speech came easily now. “You died, Tina, although it was worthy of a warrior’s end.” 

“That’s okay with me. I was always scared I would end up dying somewhere alone where no one would know me. Or miss me. I went out with a literal bang just like a real hero!” She fist-pumped the air and her form became ephemeral and drifted apart like smoke. 

“She didn’t do it long enough to hate it,” grumbled a voice and Star turned to see Dwayne Taylor beside him. The old man from Earth-90214 was standing unassisted and appeared to be at least twenty years younger but Star recognized him just the same. The man’s eyes bored into his. “What about you?’ 

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.” 

“Isn’t that why you purchased Manor Crossing? To get away from fighting and become a ‘landlord’?” He deliberately used air-quotes for the last word. 

Bristling, Star said, “I am a warrior born. Battle is in my blood and bones.” 

The superhero formerly known as Night Thrasher didn’t appear impressed by the answer. “Then why were you running away from it?” 

“I wasn’t fleeing from battle!” Star snapped. 

The old man patiently stood there as if waiting and, eventually, Star added; “But I _was_ tired of it. I wanted more to sustain me. A purpose. Something not dictated by any Mojoverse influence. Drifting back and forth between various X groups is no life. I wanted to do something substantive on this planet and buying the apartment building was a means to that end.” 

The man’s dark face betrayed a bitter smirk. “Interesting choice of words there.” 

Star offered him a puzzled head shake and Taylor added, “’End’. You got me killed.” 

“I tried to help you!” 

“Manor Crossing was meant to be a refuge for us extra-dimensional castoffs but you made us targets instead.” 

“I had no clue that The Death Sponsors were after me. Not one! If it’s an apology you want, I will freely give it. I am sorry, Mr. Taylor. I truly am, but I cannot undo what has been done.” 

“It isn’t so bad,” the old man amazed him by saying. “My body doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s been a long time. And I got to take down one of the bastards, too, just like old times. Stick to what you’re good at, Ben.” 

“I don’t-” Star started to protest but the old man’s form drifted away. “I’m good at everything,” he grumbled under his breath. 

“Yes, but you’re best at _killing_ ,” said a voice he recognized with dread. 

“Gringrave,” he whispered before he even turned around. 

She stood in the same tattered battle dress she had worn on Horus IV, complete with the open chest wound that had finally killed her. Star considered her unique look with a fresh perspective that he had not had back when they had been lovers. Mojoworld entertainment had always been heavily influenced by Earth’s pop cultures. His personal look had been deliberately stylized to represent western influences while hers had been meant to copy more random eastern references. She looked like she had been pulled from some obscure anime cartoon and crossed with a Bollywood film. She had been exotic in her time. Now she just looked ridiculous. “Of all these visions, I miss you the least.” 

“Visions?” She uttered a shrill laugh. “Is that what you think we are?” 

“Phantoms. Mirages. Figments of my imagination,” he scoffed. 

“We’re not any of those, lover.” She phased out of sight and suddenly was right in front of him, touching his cheek with icy fingers before he recoiled backwards with a cry of revulsion. “We’re all ghosts of the dead. And now that includes _you.”_

Shatterstar bolted upright in bed and flailing the air before he clutched the wound on his chest and fell backwards, grimacing in agony. He stared at the ceiling with wide, terrified eyes; on the brink of hyperventilating. It took him a moment to fall back on teachings that had been beaten into him as a crècheling. The youngest ones had been prone to anxiety before their first battles which made for some embarrassing and dishonorable skirmishes. In Star’s time, all were taught meditation and biofeedback techniques to control their breathing and heart rate. 

It’d been a long time since he had needed to do it, but he was relying on those old lessons now because that - _whatever that had been_ \- had just felt too _fekting_ real for comfort. He swore he could still feel the mark of Grin’s cold fingers on his face. 

His breathing slowed. His heart no longer felt like it was trying to ram its way out of his chest. Calmer, he opened his eyes to evaluate his surroundings. He was relieved to discover he was in his bedroom at Manor Crossing. The curtains were closed but it appeared to be late in the day and everything was as he had left it, with the exception of what was sitting on top of the bureau. 

Rictor’s battered duffle bag. Star had watching him cram everything he owned into that thing after their last fight and walked out of the apartment with it. He wasn’t sure what to make of its reappearance, but he was in no shape to dwell on the implications right now. He was desperately thirsty. _Parched._ His healing factor was in overdrive and sucking up every ounce of moisture in his cells. He hardly had any fat stores. He suspected that he was in a seriously dehydrated state; his mouth was as dry as parchment and he was feeling weak and sluggish. It took far too much effort just to sit upright and that sent the room spinning. 

He got to his feet out of sheer stubbornness and felt a sting on his right arm. Looking down, he saw a needle poked into a vein and followed the tubing to an IV rack by the bed where two bags hung upside down. The letters and numbers of “NaCl 0.9%” were as alien to him as the language on Horus IV. He pulled the catheter out with a yank and stumbled out of the room into the kitchen. He went to the sink and turned on the tap and drank directly out of the faucet. 

He drank deeply until he had to catch a breath, paused, and went back to gulping down the cold water. It wasn’t until his stomach felt uncomfortable and swollen that he stopped. Head down, he grappled with his stomach and retched some up until he got himself under control. His legs suddenly buckled and he went down hard, banging his chin on the counter. He sat on the kitchen floor in a daze, blood dripping on his chest. He was there for an unknown time before the front door to his apartment unlocked and, a few seconds later, heard; “Oh, for Christ’s sake! The first time I leave this fuckin’ place in four days, you decide to go walking around.” 

“Hullo Ric,” Star said numbly, not having the strength to look up. 

Brown boots and ragged jeans entered his field of vision before Rictor crouched down low and looked at him. “What’s goin’ on? What’d I miss?” He grabbed a napkin and pressed it to the bloody weal on Star’s chin. 

“Thirsty. I was- needed water.” The fugue around his thoughts was clearing, but slowly. “I was dehydrated.” 

“No kidding. The End put you on the IV drip. You already drained two bags and even I know that’s a danger sign. Not gonna lie to you here; you’re in really bad shape.” 

Star thought of his battle with Deadair, with Gringrave and the surviving Death Sponsors, with the four variants of himself that the Grandmaster had created and, finally, against the Elder himself. He slowly rubbed the bandage over his stomach where Grin had stabbed him. “I know.” 

“But you’re finally awake now. That’s a great sign. You got some fluids. Another score. I was just outside picking up a delivery from the deli. Y'know, the one at the corner of the street?" 

"Yes. Christine works there." 

"Yeah, she dropped off the order." Rictor broke off, scowling. Come to think of it, it had been pretty damn weird for the woman who usually worked the cash register to act as a delivery mule. And she hadn't been dressed for work, either, not with that too-tight blouse and those spandex capris. She was certainly disappointed when Rictor took the bag and paid for the order, that's for sure. It took some effort, but Ric had to remind himself that he and Star were still officially broken up and Christine wasn't any of his damned business. "She, uh, says 'hi' _._ _Anyway_ , I ordered some chicken soup. Think you can eat any? You need some calories." 

"I think so." He reached out blindly to the counter and started to haul himself to his feet. Rictor stepped in and grabbed his free arm and guided him over to one of the bar stools at the dining hutch. 

Ric opened the container and handed him a spoon. "Go slow, okay?" He eyed how weak Star's grip seemed to be. The utensil trembled in his left hand, but he managed to keep enough on the spoon to reach his mouth. "Think you'd be okay here awhile? I want to swap out the sheets on the bed. They're nasty even by my standards." 

"I'll be fine," Star murmured, wrapping his free arm around the bowl. It was old gladiator behavior, to protect his meals from rivals, and he didn't seem to be aware he was doing it. 

“Riiight,” Rictor said doubtfully. He hoped that Star wouldn't face-plant into the bowl and possibly drown but didn't say so out loud. He went to the bedroom and changed the bed in a hurry, occasionally peering around the corner. It gave him absolutely no comfort to see the slumped shape at the counter. "How you doin', amigo?" He asked, keeping his voice light. 

"Fine," came the response.

"Just checking." Ric looked at the soiled sheets puddled on the floor and decided they were too far gone for laundry. He kicked them over to the hamper. He would deal with them later. When the bed was made, he went into the bathroom. 

Star ate his soup like a man in a daze. His spoon scraped the bottom of the container and he realized that it was empty. Still in that strange, old mindset, he picked it up and licked it clean, then ran his tongue along the counter where he had spilled a little. When a hand touched his shoulder, he snapped his head around with a growl, baring teeth. 

"Whoa!" Ric said, pulling his hand back. "It's just me." 

Star blinked at him and relaxed. "Sorry. It's been a bad . . . It- How long have I been back?" 

"Four days." 

"The last _five_ have taken their toll. I meant no ill will. I'm just . . ." He fell silent, unable to come up with the words to describe how he felt. 

"It's okay. I get it. Listen, I started a bath for you." 

Star looked at his right hand where Gringrave had stabbed him through the palm. It was bandaged and the fingers were all hot and swollen. He tried to make a fist and grimaced, fresh sweat popped out on his brow. "I should have healed by now." 

"You're telling me? The first two days you were doing pretty good but then you sort of, I dunno, stalled. You took a bad turn last night. I thought-" His voice suddenly broke and he quickly changed the subject. "Let's get you into the bathroom, huh?" 

Star slipped off the stool and found his footing, wavering place for a few seconds before moving under his own power. Ric was close beside him, ready to step in if he was needed, but he was relieved to see that some of Star's strength was coming back. The tub was about half full and still filling. Star pawed at the various dressings and Ric helped him peel off the tape and remove the bloody gauze and pressure dressings. The penetrating wound on his chest and back was the worst, but there were many others. Too many others. The terrible bruising along both sides of Star's ribs had become a yellow sunrise and he was marked by more stabbings, cuts and abrasions than Ric wanted to count. When the Mojoworlder stepped out of his briefs, Ric tried not to look but damned if Star wasn't bruised _there_ , too. "C'mon," he said, taking his hand to help steady him. "In you go. Careful. Just like that." 

The both of them could count on one hand how often they had taken a bath. At six-foot-three, Star looked ungainly and awkward in the tiny apartment tub. "I do not like this," he said querulously, trying to fold his too-long legs into the confining space to somehow get them wet. 

Ric turned off the taps. He hadn't wanted to go for scalding, but the water was still hot enough to make the small room start to steam up. "You need a good long soak. I poured in two cups of Epsom salts. It'll help with your wounds. Just try to go with it." He grabbed a washcloth and the bar of soap with the intention of helping bathe him and then put them back down as he considered what he was about to do. This was almost becoming as intimate as sex and they still hadn't worked out their differences yet. Should they try to talk things out first? It was pretty clear Star was in no shape for it and needed his help. Then again, maybe Christine from the deli would like to volunteer for the job. 

_There it is. Right there_ , he brooded. _I'm jealous._

Star was looking at his wounded right hand. Gringrave had stabbed through it with one of her patented blades and she was notorious for coating them with some rather fanciful concoctions. The wound had closed but it was a partial heal. A pocket of infection was trapped inside the meat like a boil. "Hand me my knife. It's on the second shelf." Star kept all manner of weapons within close reach in practically every room. Every cupboard and drawer had a blade of one type or other; there was one on top of the fridge, beside the couch, two were hanging on pegs by the door. He had a bandolier of throwing stars taped to the back of the headboard of his bed. 

It was so common a sight Ric didn't think anything of it as he handed over the weapon, a thin-bladed dirk, still lost in his own internal debate. When he looked around, he watched Star plunge the blade completely through his right hand. _"MADRE DE DIOS!"_

"It's okay," Star said through gritted teeth. He squeezed the hand as hard as he could and a pocket of pus erupted from the top of the reopened wound before bright red blood ran freely. He dipped it under the water, deliberately flexing it. "It'll heal faster this way." 

"Oh, fuck." Ric dropped strengthlessly down onto the nearby toilet, taking his head in his hands. "I can't- Christ, I can’t do this anymore.” He looked over at Star with rheumy eyes. "You’re killing me, man." 

The pain had brought Star around quite a bit. He stared at his friend in confusion. "What are you talking about?" 

_“This!”_ He waved his arms in the general direction of Star and the tub. “Watching you go through this. Worrying about you. It’s too much for me to handle.” 

An odd mulish expression slowly crossed the Mojoworlder’s face. “You walked out of here once before. Feel free to do so again.” 

Ric clambered to his feet and started shouting, _“_ _¡Pendejo! ¡Eres un pinche gañán!_ I saved your ungrateful life, _cabron!”_

“Thanks for the soup.” 

“Fuck the soup! That’s not what I’m talking about and you damn well know it. If I hadn’t blasted the Dockmaster to pieces, you would have been alien scat on the pier.” 

“And if I hadn’t killed the Grandmaster you, and every other person I care for, would have been erased from existence. We are even.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, I- . . . Hold on a sec. Back up.” Ric blinked at him. “You did _what?_ How?!” The tenants of Manor Crossing had been sent back to Earth after Star had surrendered. They all assumed that he had teleported from Horus IV to escape the bastard and everyone had been on pins and needles for the last four days expecting some type of vicious retaliation from the immortal Elder. 

“I teleported the two of us to Earth-1218.” 

“Tina’s world?” 

“Yes. Its strict rules of physics and logic make gods and superheroes impossible. The Grandmaster became powerless there. I gutted him and managed to port out before I succumbed.” 

It was all starting to make sense now. “You did back-to-back teleports without any breaks.” Star had learned to down-channel his shockwave power in a continuous way that didn’t totally drain him, but teleportation was a totally different matter. He had learned to do it without an anchor if he had jaunted to that destination before, but doing it again without at least an hour’s rest could potentially kill him. “Didn’t you learn your lesson when we got back from Mojoworld?” There was an edge of panic in his voice. 

“I was fading. If I had stayed on Tina’s Earth my healing factor wouldn’t have worked. I would have died there for sure. It was a calculated risk. And it worked. You found me.” 

“Lucky break,” Ric said in an unsteady voice. Being Star’s anchor gave them a very limited psychic rapport. He had always assumed that the Mojoworlder was the only one who benefited from that mental bond, but something had tickled the back of his mind the same time Star was stuck in the void between teleports, dying. Somehow, Ric had known something was wrong with his ex and had done something he had never done with his powers before; he had homed in on the alien’s sonic vibrations, enhanced them, and used that ability to guide him back home. 

And damned if it hadn’t worked. 

“We’ve always been on the same wavelength,” Star murmured. 

“You asshole,” Ric said, but there was no heat to his words. He sat down on the toilet again and stared at the wounded gladiator for a long time. Star permitted the examination, knowing that his ex was puzzling over something. Besides, that little blast of anger had left him feeling exhausted again. He slumped down further into the hot water. 

“Why’d you push me away?” Ric finally asked in a strikingly vulnerable tone. 

Star released a long sigh. “Because I had become convinced you were going to kill me.” 

“You’re not making any sense.” 

“Nothing was the same after New Tian. We were thrown back into the chaos of the X and our relationship began to flounder even then. You made things abundantly clear that you wanted to go your own way when you joined up with your friends with the Hatchi Corporation.” 

“Hey! We were trying to make things work. Remember?” 

“I remember that _I_ was trying to make things work.” Anger was starting to creep into his voice again. “I was not included in the team dynamic. You already had your token sword-wielder-slash-teleporter. You left me behind at that café and never showed up at the Whitney. I even cooked for you and I _loathe_ cooking. And then..." He swallowed. "There was the incident when you died.” 

Ric frowned at him. “What the hell are you talking about? I never died.” 

“The plane crash in North Carolina.” 

“Like I said; I never-” 

“Yes, you did!” Shatterstar suddenly snapped. “I was in New York when our rapport switched off. Just like _that!”_ He clasped his wounded right hand into a tight fist, forgetting the injury, and blood splattered against the tiled wall. He didn’t seem to notice, too lost in the memory of that terrible day. “I felt like I was hollowed. Nobody thought to call to tell me that your plane had gone through one of Magik’s portals until ten hours had passed. _Ten. Fucking. Hours._ I spent all of that miserable time nursing the agony of your loss in my head certain that you were dead.” 

Julio’s jaw dropped. It might have been from being blind-sided by this vulnerable proclamation or by the fact that Star was swearing in English. At that moment, he wasn’t sure what bothered him more. 

“Ten hours,” the Mojoworlder repeated as a low rumble. “I still remember every single second of that torture. I did not want to experience that kind of pain ever again.” 

Star _had_ been relieved when they’d reunited but, now that Ric it thought over, the alien started becoming withdrawn and moody soon afterwards. Julio first dismissed it as a distraction due to buying Manor Crossing. It was a huge step for someone who, before that, had owned nothing more than his swords and the clothes on his back. Add in the time spent towards renovations and procuring tenants and Ric began to take the abandonment personally. And it _had_ been personal, just for all the wrong reasons. 

“ _That’s_ why you pushed me away,” he realized. 

Star looked away, struggling to contain his emotions. His Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down and the other man realized that he was swallowing back tears. “I didn’t want to tell you this. To say it out loud makes me sound petty and weak.” 

“It makes you _human_ ,” Julio insisted. “For the first time since I’ve met you, I’m finally seeing your human side.” 

Glancing at him sidelong, Star blinked hard and a tear started rolling down his cheek before he roughly slapped it away as if it were an insect that had stung him. When another tear fell, Ric jumped forward and caught his hand before he could hit himself again. “Stop doing that. It’s okay.” 

That might actually be the truth. He was holding Star’s injured right hand and the wounds on either side had knitted closed, showing bright pink scar tissue. It was a reassuring sight that the Mojoworlder’s healing factor had finally kicked in and was working again. 

“Make them stop,” the alien gasped. He could only stare at where their skin was touching because he was too ashamed to make any kind of eye contact. “Please, j-just make them s-stop...” He wrenched his arm free and wrapped them protectively around his head as he started crying. 

Even before he knew he was going to do it, Rictor immediately knelt beside the tub and tried to pull the anguished warrior close. At first, Star tried to resist but he was in a sorry state and eventually relented. He pressed his hot face against Ric’s shirt and uttered soul-shuddering sobs that shook his whole body. 

“I’ve got you, estrella,” Julio murmured, hugging him tight. His chin rested atop Star’s head where matted blood had turned the short red hair into dull needles. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re home now. You’re safe. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I’m suh-sorry, Julio,” Star choked, grabbing desperate fistfuls of his T-shirt. “I was w-wrong to do it. It was stupid! I missed you s-so much!” 

“I missed you, too. And I’m sorry. For-for that stupid plane thing. For that whole Hatchi mess. I thought you and me could use a breather, but thing’s just went ball’s up like they usually do whenever we’re apart. If you hadn’t come to me for help when you did-” His voice went hoarse when he realized what could have happened if Star hadn’t swallowed his pride and appeared at The Shakedown looking for information. He would never have learned of the terrible chain of events that transported the Mojoworlder to Horus IV. Things could have so easily gone sideways there. He would have found Manor Crossing abandoned with no clue what had happened to its tenants or landlord. The mere thought of that possibility was unendurable.

As things were, it had all been too close for comfort. Ric had spent the last four days close to Star and had only begun to worry about him surviving his ordeals when his healing factor stopped working the night before. He started to entertain the grim thought that the person he had known since they were both angry, emotionally stunted teenagers might actually die. “I love you, Star.” 

“I love you too, Julio,” the alien said against his shirt, his words muffled. When he pulled back, his face was flushed a hectic, ruddy color that wasn’t flattering. His eyes were puffy, and his nose was running. He coughed and scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands until Ric gently wiped his face with a damp washcloth. He weathered the attention, but was clearly miserable as tears spilled from his eyes. He gestured fretfully to his face. “I can’t make them stop. I-I think I’m broken.” 

“You were,” Ric murmured. “I think you have been for a while, but you’re gonna be okay now.” He kissed one hot cheek and then the other, his lips lingering. “I’ll make sure of that.” 

They were about to kiss when there was a flurry of knocks at the apartment door. 

“Oh, balls,” Ric grumbled. “Karl’s got ears like a friggin’ bat. He probably heard me yelling and rounded up the others.” 

Star was starting to curl into a protective ball again. “I don’t want them to see me like this,” he said in an unsteady voice. “I’m not ungrateful for their concern, but... I-I don’t-I-” He gasped out another barking sob and scrubbed his face with the washcloth to try and smother his emotions. “This is so embarrassing!” 

Ric probably should have been concerned by the display. It was all a first. Instead of filling him with dread it gave him an odd encouraging feeling. It was as if the playing field had been leveled between them when, before, it had always seemed to be tilted in the Mojoworlder’s larger-than-life favor. It filled him with hope over their struggling relationship.  
  
“It’s gonna be alright, babe. I got this,” Ric leaned over and gave him a kiss on the top of his head. “You try to calm down.” He quickly got up and left the bathroom before the tenants of Manor Crossing broke in the door. 

More voices. Star leaned forward and ran some cool water over the hand cloth and then held it to his burning face. He tried to concentrate on what the others were saying and use that as a diversion to offset the perplexing emotional breakdown he was experiencing. To hear Julio’s voice and those of his concerned tenants (and he had to mentally correct the terminology to accept that they were all more than just time displaced refugees to him now; they were true friends) helped calm him. 

For such a small creature, Karl’s bellow easily eclipsed the others. “He just pulled outta a death coma and you thought it’d be a good idea to _shout_ at him? You stupid punk!” 

“For a critter that looks like his mom got raped by a fruit bat, you have a lot of nerve insulting folks, pendejo,” Rictor shot back. “Star can more than handle himself. You can all stop worrying.” 

“So, Ben is going to be alright?” The relief in the End Woman voice was crystal clear. 

“Yeah, his healing factor rebooted. He’s taking a bath right now.” 

“Phew. That’s a relief. He was gettin’ kinda rank-” 

“I’m sure Karl means to say that he’s as happy to hear the good news as the rest of us are,” Goldon cut in. “Right, Crim? 

There was a surly grunt of acknowledgement. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” The End asked. 

“Your kick-ass lasagna would get him back on his feet in no time,” Ric said without missing a beat. Unlike Star, he genuinely enjoyed cooking but if he could score a freebie, he would take advantage of it and the former mutant commando had more than proved she was a culinary master. “Wouldn’t say no to your amazing oreo cake, either.” 

The woman’s relieved laughter was bright and infectious. Just hearing it stopped Star’s tears in their tracks. It was such a _happy_ sound. It made all the aches and pains in his body seem worthwhile. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, chuckling. 

“I make some kick-ass kibble-” 

“Get lost, Karl.” 

“Nobody appreciates me!” was all that the former anti-nationalist terrorist got out before it sounded like he was being dragged down the corridor back to his #1 North garden apartment by the Rajas brothers. 

Rictor said his goodbyes and closed the door, locking it for good measure. It sounded like he was heading back to the bathroom when his cell phone rang, playing the Klingon battle theme. “Hi Tabs,” he said as a sigh. On a good day, Star would have been able to pick up his former team-mate’s voice from the receiver. This was not one of those days. He had to settle for hearing one-side of the conversation. 

“No, I’m not coming in. You get to play manager at the Shakedown for another night. Yeah, I don’t doubt that you're stoked to do it. I hear you’re drinking more than my regulars. Try to leave them a _little_ of the top shelf booze, would you?” There was a pause and then some of the levity went out of his voice when he told her, “He’s awake, but... he’s in rough shape, Boomer. He’s not gonna bounce back from this one as fast as he normally does. No, I’m not gonna leave him like that. Yes, I’m going to stay here with him. It’s what boyfriend’s do.” 

Star was starting to tremble and credited it to the cooling water than to any other reason. He wasn’t aware that he was holding his breath until he heard Julio say, “Yes, that means we’re back together.” That statement was followed by a tinny cheer even the Mojoworlder could hear. 

He let his breath go out in a gasp. The damnable tears were back but, when Rictor stepped into the bathroom and smiled at him, Shatterstar realized that they were ones of pure joy.

* * *

.End


End file.
